"You old poof." Spike said as he looked around him in amazement. "I didn't think you would ever have it in you."

It had been fifty years since Spike had last seen Angel. In actuality, he hadn't seen him yet, but no doubt he would.

Spike had been blackmailed into helping Angel on his quest for redemption. Forced was the better term. The Powers that Be had threatened him with a soul if he didn't help.

Rather than live with a soul, Spike had gone to help. Reluctantly.

For ten years him and Angel had lived in LA, facing trials and tribulations, suffering and happiness. They had found common ground with each other, and fell in together like 100 years prior. Spike had adjusted to life with the souled vampire nicely. And also the human help Angel hired. Which was mainly Cordelia.

Despite wanting to rip her throat out every time she opened her mouth, Spike got along with Cordelia reasonably well.

Doyle was another matter. Spike continuously bugged Doyle, whether it was about him being half-demon, wanting to get in Cordelia's pants, anything that would annoy the Irish(half)man, Spike did. Doyle just put up with it, knowing he was no match to the blond vampire.

Ten years this team worked together, ten long years of saving people and their souls, along with Angel's own.

Until one day, when there was an accident. Doyle and Cordelia both got taken out of the good fight. Angel fled. Literally, took off, left Spike to take care of everything.

Spike waited six months for Angel to return. He never did. So, Spike closed up shop, sold the building, kept the money, boxed up Angel's things and put them in storage, should he ever come for them.

Spike left LA. He left California. Not knowing that Buffy died, he didn't want to chance running into her. He searched for his sire all over the US.

First the states around California, then farther away. He couldn't find a trace.

He wondered why Angel ran off. He know how to face death, so that couldn't be the reason. Maybe it was the people who were no longer with him or that he'd face that everyday, Spike didn't know.

After about 20 years of searching the States, Spike went to the old country. Wisps of the "angelic one" floated around, that he'd been broken and was only a shell of his former self. Spike didn't believe those. After a couple years the rumors died down and Spike left Europe, abandoning the search. He hadn't gotten a soul, so he figured he was off the hook with the PTB.

He went to South America, to find Drusilla, maybe win her back. That's when he found out the Sunnydale Slayer had been no exception to the short-lived Slayer rule, for one of her descendent Slayers was living in South America. And had wiped out Dru and her minions.

Spike had raged for a month, ripping that Slayer limb from limb. Dru might not had needed him, but he still loved his dark goddess.

After almost getting caught by the Brazilian police in his grief and rage, he left the Americas and went back to Europe.

He haunted the old hunting grounds, marvelled and disappointed in the changes. Roamed from city to city, country to county, for 25 years. He created an identity for himself, a human, wealthy eccentric, who never stayed put. He found himself becoming more human along with the part he played.

He had been in England, when he decided he had enough of the weather, and went to bright and sunny California again. To the Hellmouth.

He almost didn't go. But something pulled him. And he went.

Sunnydale had changed. It was no longer a little, tiny, one-Starbucks kind of town.

It had grown into a bustling metropolis, it's size comparable to some of the larger Californian cites.

The current Slayer, well one of them, was residing there, keeping the city safe. After all, it still had a Hellmouth underneath the ground.

Spike avoided the Slayer as he explored the new and improved Sunnydale. Change never stopped to amaze the now brown haired vampire. He had grown out his short peroxide locks, and left his hair the natural brown and slightly longish.

It was just by chance that he stumbled onto the old factory. Only it wasn't an abandoned, burnt-out factory anymore.

It's modest sign read "Summers," which Spike vaguely placed as Buffy's last name. It seemed to be a popular place, people were streaming in the doors.

So, Spike followed and was amazed to learn that it was an art gallery. He looked to see what artist was on display. He hoped it was one of the older ones, that he was more familiar with.

He almost fainted when he saw the name to be "Angelus."

He stood shocked for several minutes, until a woman came and shook him gently.

"Are you okay, sir?" Spike looked at the voice's owner. He was looking at a Joyce look-a-like.

"Joyce?" He asked, before he could stop himself.

"No," The woman was confused. "That's an old relative of mine. She was the one who started the art gallery. Although it hasn't always been here."

"You look like her." Spike confessed, before realizing that he didn't look old enough to have known her.

"Really?" The woman asked. "I've been told that." Spike nodded. "Well, sir, enjoy yourself tonight," She turned to walk away, then looked at Spike again. "You look familiar."

"I'm sure I don't. I haven't been in Sunnydale for a long time." Spike responded.

The woman gave him a small smile, then walked away.

Spike had walked into the main gallery after that, and that was when he had said, "You old poof, I didn't think you would ever have it in you."

The room was filled with paintings of Angel's life. Spike could recognize several scenes from the past. It was mostly the past in this front room, with some from LA thrown in for good measure.

Spike lingered in front of each of the paintings, reliving the memories that came with every scene.

He listened to the murmuring about him as he walked the room. One thing he noticed about the paintings was the Angel had left the vampires in the scene out of them. Spike didn't know why.

He turned into a smaller gallery and was amazed, yet again. This room was filled with the Scooby Gang. Scenes from their lives and portraits of them.

He slowly traversed the room admiring the detail that each of the paintings had. There was Giles, whose portrait was labelled "Watcher," Xander, whose was "Alexander," Willow, who was "Hacker," and Cordelia who was labelled "May Queen." Then there were several of Buffy. They was labelled "Slayer," then whatever she was doing.

Spike stopped in front of the one that showed Buffy in her prime; a strong, powerful young woman with the world on her shoulders, but who had still found the ability to stand. Also, she was beautiful. The painting was so life-like. Spike examined it in more detail. Everything was perfect, even down to the eyes, which held a touch of world-weariness, but still shown with life and vitality.

"You are so beautiful, Buffy Summers." He said softly.

"You knew her?" Someone asked behind him.

He whirled, and took in the petite frame behind him.

The face was slightly older, but the hair was still flaming red, and Spike immediately recognized the person.

"Red!" He exclaimed softly, not believing his eyes.

"Do I know you?" She was instantly on guard.

"No, you can't be the witch, you're too young.' Spike shuffled his feet, wondering how he was going to get out of this one.

Something flickered on her face. "Spike?" His head shot up to look at her. "It is you! I'd recognize those eyes and cheekbones anywhere!

"It's Willow, right?" Spike affirmed. She nodded. "But how? You don't look over 30, yet you have to be at least in your seventies. You're not a...?" He trailed his question, looking about them.

Nodding sadly, Willow looked at the paintings around her.

"I was there when Buffy died." She spoke softly, hidden emotion, like she might laugh or cry at any instant. "After she was dead, the vampires decided that it would be a sick joke to turn her best friend into a vampire." She chuckled harshly. "Soon after, Giles cursed me with a soul. Minus one happiness clause." She smirked at the reference.

"So, it's been how long pet?" Spike wanted to smoke, but they had been outlawed a couple years back, by some nut-job group. He didn't see the big problem. He wasn't going to die from them.

"50 years." Willow stopped and marvelled at that fact. "50 years, Spike. I never thought I would make it, being a slayerette and all." She paused. "And what's fifty years to you?"

"Too long.' Was Spike's reply. Willow asked with her eyes from him to explain. "I've been alone for 50 years. After Angel-" Spike stopped. "I've never been alone that long. There's always been Angelus, Dru, and then Angel, and I loathe to say this, Cordelia and Doyle. But 50 years is too long to be alone."

"I heard about Drusilla." Willow quietly offered. "I'm sorry."

Spike 'hmphed' but didn't offer anything more conversation wise, just gazed around at the faces staring at him from the walls. The ones he had tried to kill so many times, yet they foiled his plans each and every time.

"I came to see them." Willow confessed, looking around the room as well. "I lost all my photos. Over time, the memories faded, as each one died." She shook her head, to bring herself out of the memories that hadn't faded.

She smiled at Spike. "I can't stay in here too long. One person already approached me about looking like "Hacker." It's been nice seeing you Spike. I'm sure we'll meet again." She glided away, after one more look at the paintings, the vampiress at her best.

After a memorizing look at all the paintings, Spike left, to explore the other two, smaller rooms.

The first he looked in was filled with demons. This held most people's attentions. There was murmurings about each and every painting in this area, almost always about where the ideas for these creatures came from.

Spike recognized several from the ten years he had worked with Angel. And the ones he and Angelus had encountered. And the Judge was there. And others didn't recognize as anything other then demonic.

Spike didn't spend half as long in that gallery as he did in the Scooby Gang's.

The last smaller gallery would have taken his breath away, had he needed to breathe.

It was filled with paintings of vampires, in game face and their human counterparts, shown doing things vampires do, and them posing as humans.

The first paintings were of the Master and Darla. Spike stood silently, reliving those times, when he, Angelus, Drusilla, and Darla had hung out in the Master's court. Those had been fun times.

The next couple were of Penn, Angelus's first childe, whom had shown up in LA, and been staked by Angel. Then others of Angelus's childer that Spike never got to meet.

Then Drusilla.

Spike stood in awe as how his dark goddess looked so life-like, with her wild eyes, dark hair flying around her, as she whirled. There was several of her, showing her change from Catholic innocent, to mad vampire.

He allowed himself to grieve for her, how he couldn't have been with her, to save her, because she pushed him away.

As he looked past the last painting of Drusilla, he was confronted with a brown-haired man, with highly defined cheekbones, dressed in old-fashioned clothes staring at him.

He vaguely knew the face, but couldn't place the name. Then it hit him.

It was himself that he was seeing. Himself 250 years ago.

Spike stepped closer to it, as if trying to find himself in the painting. Then, as it was with all the others, he found it in the eyes.

His personality shown through the eyes. Sarcastic, evil, loving, human and demon in one, and all the other things that described him were in those eyes of the strange man, he had recently identified as himself.

Turning away from it to see if there was another one, and gasped when he saw all of the rest of the small gallery was filled with that man, with brown and blond hair.

Spike spun in a slow circle, trying to get used to the fact that this was him. Or at least he thought it was.

Stepping close to one, he read the caption, "Will-at play." Glancing up at it, it was him, in fighting stance, duster billowing out behind him. His hair was blond, so he figured it to be when they spent those years in La together, 50 years ago.

An older women came up to him. "Excuse me, but if I may, can I ask if that is you in these pictures?"

Spike nodded silently, before realizing that it might be absurd. But the lady didn't seem perturbed by this.

"Oh, wonderful. Ladies,' She called to the group behind her, "IT is him! He said so!" The rest of her group came up, chattering loudly. Spike wondered if these were the ladies that had approached Willow.

"You grew your hair.' One of the ladies said to him, pointing to one of the blond paintings.

"Yes, awhile ago." Spike answered.

"You're very cute," Another woman said, "Did you know that?"

"I do now." He responded, illicting laughter from the group.

"I was wondering if you knew if the artist was going to put in an appearance? His works have been here all week, but no sign of him."

"I don't know." Spike said softly. "I haven't seen him in a very long time."

One of the ladies looked at her watch. "Oh, look at the time, I have to get home to my son. Come on, ladies." She turned to Spike, "It was nice talking to you."

Spike smiled back pleasantly, despite inwardly wanted to rip out a few voice boxes.

Then the women left, leaving Spike to look at the paintings of himself again. He sat down on a bench, looking at one entitled, "Sleeping." It was him, sprawled face down by a tree. It took Spike several minutes until he figured out that it was at the time he came to Sunnydale drunk, and had passed out outside the mansion.

"Enjoying yourself?" Came a deep, cultured voice by Spike's ear. Spike jumped and faced...

Angel.

He was shocked, just studying the familiar features he hadn't seen in over fifty years. His hair was longer too, pulled back at the nape of his neck. But the face, and the body were the same, and Spike could hardly believe that his sire was standing in front of him.

Before he could stop himself, he enfolded Angel in a hug.

It was several moments before Spike felt it reciprocated. And they stood, Spike reassuring himself that it was Angel, breathing in the beloved smell of his sire. Angel was doing the same, enjoying being close to his favorite childe, whom he hadn't seen in 50 years, and didn't even know if he was still alive.

They pulled about slowly, just watching each other. But Spike wasn't ready to let go yet, in case Angel would run, and laced his fingers with Angel's.

Angel gave him a small smile and motioned to the bench to sit down.

"So, are you?" Angel asked.

"Am I what?" Spike who had been watching their entwined hands, looked up at Angel's voice.

"Having fun." Angel replied, watching Spike's face, as if he was studying it for future use.

"Yeah." Spike replied simply and released Angel's hand. He ran his own through his lengthening hair. "Angelus, why did you run?"

Angel kept silent and wouldn't meet Spike eyes.

"Angel?" Spike prodded.

Angel stood and tugged on Spike's hand. "Come on."

Angel led Spike through the gallery, and to the first smaller one Spike went into, the one with the Scooby Gang. He stopped in front of the one of the Slayer that Spike was admiring earlier.

Angel studied it for a bit, gave a small smile, and Spike guessed that he was thinking of the petite blonde Slayer that had captured his heart and soul.

Angel started to speak quietly, his tone of voice causing Spike to pay close attention.

"That night, when Cordelia and Doyle died, I went back to the apartment, leaving you with their bodies. The phone rang. I didn't want to answer it, but I did anyway.

"It was Giles. He called to say the Slayer had died. Hacker too. That's when I ran. It seemed the Powers that Be wanted to test my soul. Well, it worked. My soul was torn apart. Not as in I became Angelus," He hastened to say at Spike's expression, "but as in I went into hiding and never wanted to come out."

Spike was held captive by Angel's voice and the haunted look in his eyes.

But Angel went on. "But I came out. I don't know how many years passed, but it must have been awhile, because everything had changed. That's when I started painting. I didn't want to lose the memories I had of everybody to the world."

"I didn't see Doyle." Spike ventured softly.

"He's in with the demons. Didn't you recognize him?"

Spike shook his head. "I didn't spend long in there."

"Well, he's in there. Spikey face and all." Another small, sad smile from Angel.

They sat in silence, both remembering the night when Cordelia and Doyle left heir lives.

"Enough brooding, you two."

Angel was the first to look up. "Willow!"

"Hi, Angel." She said, smiling at both of them.

Before any of them could say anything further, the woman Spike recognized as the Joyce look-a-like walked up.

"Angelus, the crowd is clambering for you, you have to get out there and greet your public!" She paused and looked at Spike. "Hi, again."

He nodded to her.

"Well, come on, Angelus, it's time to go." The woman prodded again.

"Alright, Darlene. I'm coming." Angel stood up, then grabbed Spike's arm. "You're coming with me."

"I am?" Spike asked, surprised.

"Yes. Willow too." He grabbed her arm as well, and pulled them both along with him.

The woman, Darlene, led them right to the center of the main gallery, where a microphone was set up.

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, a real treat, Angelus is here."

Angel stepped closer to her, pulling Spike and Willow along.

"He'll be here the majority of the night, to answer your questions. Again, this is the artist, Angelus!" She led the clapping, stepping away from the microphone.

"Oh, this is going to be fun." Angel muttered softly, so only the supernatural creatures flanking him could hear.

Spike followed Angel, as did Willow, as Angel answered all the questions asked of him.

An hour before closing time, the questions tapered off, and they escaped to a back room.

"Drink?" Angel asked them, moving towards a refrigerator.

"Sure." Said Willow. Spike said nothing, knowing Angel would get him one.

Sure enough, when Angel turned around, there was three bottles in his hand. Three bottles of a crimson liquid.

"What is it?" Willow asked, taking a sip, and knowing immediately.

Angel answered anyways. "Blood."

"Thanks, mate." Spike said, taking the bottle from him, and chugging it back.

"I want to show you something." Angel told them. He ushered them back outside into the gallery.

"See that girl over there, with the older man with her?" Angel pointed.

Spike and Willow nodded.

"That's the new Slayer. Whistler approached me about helping her. I agreed."

"And I care?" Spike asked, watching the girl with interest.

"I want to know if you two want to help me." He voiced it quietly, not knowing how they'd react.

"Sure." Willow's response was quiet, she was thinking about the times she had helped Buffy.

Spike took longer to answer.

He didn't know if he wanted to join the good fight again. If asked, he'd still say he was forced to help Angel, that he didn't want too.

But Spike had been happy, whether it was from the fact he had his sire back, or that he was helping, he didn't know. But he had been happy. He didn't have the burden of Drusilla, as he saw her in the recent years they spent in Sunnydale, and he had been free in the world, with his sire by his side.

Now he was being asked if he wanted to do the same again.

"I guess." He huffed, taking another gulp of his drink.

Angel smiled, knowing that would be his reaction, and squeezed him around the shoulders, as they stood, three demons, watching the girl who had the weight of the world on her young shoulders.

END